My wife always insisted on Level 4C. 'Closer to the escalator, less walking,' she'd say. Every trip, every time, 4C.
After she died, I didn't fly for seven years. The thought of that garage made my chest tight.
Then my daughter had a baby. A boy. I booked a flight. When I pulled into the garage, my hands steered me to Level 4C before I even decided.
I sat in the car a long time. I opened the glovebox out of habit — and there was the ice scraper she kept, even in July. She said you never know.
A guy tapped on my window. It was Jim, the beer league commissioner from our village. He was picking up his daughter. He said, 'Thought that was your truck. Good to see you, old man.'
We hugged. He didn't ask why I was sitting there. He just said, 'She'd want you to go meet that grandkid.'
I got out. Walked to the escalator. Her level. The door I thought was closed forever had a crack in it, and a little light was coming through.